


I Had A Dream About You

by kinodream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (but it DOES get better), Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic, Dreams and Nightmares, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Everyone Has Issues, Fiber Arts, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Eskel (The Witcher), Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, The Witcher 3 Spoilers, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29420943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinodream/pseuds/kinodream
Summary: A love story about guilt, snow, and beetroot cultivation.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 20
Kudos: 23





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

> The Major Character Death warning is a slight overstatement--nobody dies during this fic, but Geralt spends a lot of time having nightmares about canonical character deaths and it's a big part of the story, so it seemed wise to warn for it. Also, there's a LOT of spoilers for one of the possible TW3 endings.
> 
> Title is from the Richard Siken poem of the same name. If you’ve read it before, go looking for the older version published in the Iowa Review—that’s the one that inspired this fic.
> 
> Also, I swear I tried to make this a happy story. I was so ready to write a nice simple “what if Eskel became a farmer and then Geralt visited him and they were in love” oneshot, but then I was reading through the Witcher wiki about the possible endings and had a really horrible idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: canon-typical gore and ableism, very bad nightmares, parental abuse, evil humans. (Pretty much everything is gonna be about as bad as the worst parts of TW3 canon, so if you can handle that, you should be okay in this story. But I'll give content warnings each chapter anyway, just in case.)
> 
> This chapter starts just a few months after the end of TW3 (not counting any DLCs), and while I've bent some facts and changed up a few things, I did my best to stick to canon throughout.

**ESKEL—4 AUGUST 1272**

The inn across the street looks warm—light and song spilling out of the door, the smell of mushroom soup in a stew pot. Eskel takes a deep sniff. _Kurka_ , he thinks. _Cooked in hare stock. A little too much rosemary thrown in._

It’s night, and the streets are empty. Eskel allows himself to linger for a moment. Imagines walking through the door, getting an ale and a bowl of that soup and listening to the caterwauling of the local bard for a while. It’s a nice fantasy. But even if he had the coin, a Witcher showing up with a face like his tends to put an end to merrymaking. It’d be sullen, terrified silence, and a lot of villagers craning their heads to try and see his scars from a better angle.

No, he’ll not subject himself to that.

He nudges Scorpion onward.

Sometimes he thinks about those big beds in Kaer Morhen—not just wide, but long. Long enough that even _his_ feet never hung off the edge. You could fit four full-grown Witchers in one of those, as long as you didn’t mind getting real friendly. And he hadn’t minded. It was nice not to sleep alone. Even near the end, sometimes he, Geralt, Lambert, and Coën had all packed themselves into a single bed on winter nights. 

Then Coën had left and not come back, and the bed was a little emptier.

And then Lambert—

Eskel had shared those smaller student beds with Geralt often enough. Probably every night until their first year on the Path, actually, which led to the troublesome discovery only a few days out of Kaer Morhen that he couldn’t really sleep alone. 

He got very good at meditation during that first year, and also visited a lot of brothels.

But that was before his face got shredded. Hard to find any stranger that’d bed down with something like Eskel, no matter how much he’d offer to pay.

He’d gone home to Kaer Morhen after that, and didn’t leave again except in the company of other Witchers, which handily solved both the sleeping problem and the terrorizing locals problem.

But Kaer Morhen is more rubble than not, now, and even the ghosts have abandoned it.

**ESKEL—23 AUGUST 1272**

Another village in a long march of identical pit stops along the Path—doors slammed in his face, inns always too full to accommodate him, and even those who nail contracts to the board don’t want _his_ help. _We’ll wait for the next Wolf Witcher passing through,_ they always say. Eskel can’t really bring himself to tell them that they'll be waiting a long, long time.

He hasn’t heard news of Geralt since he last passed through Velen some months ago. He’d gone to Crookback bog, either to bury his last brother or else to catch a trail, but in the end he’d done neither. Alghouls in numbers Eskel had never seen swarmed the bog, and he’d barely set foot on the Trail of Sweets before being attacked by a whole host of them. There’d been far too many to fight through by himself. 

He’d entertained, for a moment, setting the whole forest ablaze. Burning it down, then heading toward the center to look for... remains, maybe. But he hadn’t, in the end. He’d turned westward, toward the coast, instead.

If Geralt _is_ still alive, he’s making himself scarce. Eskel can’t blame him for that, but he wishes—

Well. It doesn’t matter.

**GERALT—23 AUGUST 1272**

“There’s this thick fog,” says the alderman, “That comes pouring out of the entrance on cloudy days. Been like that since Lucjan died in there two summers past. If you could get rid of the fog, the miners would go back to work, and their wives and young’uns would stop starving.”

Geralt fixes the alderman with a flat stare. “How’d Lucjan die?”

The alderman rubs his brow, and a thin scent of unease starts to roll off him. “Well,” he says, and then clears his throat. “We think the ghouls killed him.”

“You think?”

“Twas either the ghouls or the nekkers,” says the alderman. “Far as we know.”

“Exactly how many different monsters do you have in your mine?”

“Two!” says the alderman indignantly. “Far as we know!”

“That’s reassuring,” says Geralt dryly. “If I find anything other than those two, you’re paying me double.”

“Ah,” says the alderman. “Well, in that case, there might be three.”

Geralt holds in a frustrated sigh. “What’s the third?”

“We don’t rightly know, Master Witcher. There’s not been _sight_ of a third beast, only there’s an unholy shrieking that comes down from the mountain, sometimes. Loud, it is. Sets your skin to gooseflesh.”

“Hm,” says Geralt. “You bury the body yet?”

The alderman wrings his hands. “No, no,” he says. “Didn’t bury the lad.”

“You couldn’t find the body?”

“Didn’t look for it, if I’m bein’ honest. But we know it’s in the mines, nonetheless.”

Geralt frowns. “How can you be certain if you never even checked?”

“Well,” says the alderman, “That shrieking started the night after he disappeared. And... someone saw him. Walking up the path.” The scent of unease is even stronger now. Geralt scrutinizes him for a moment.

“Three hundred,” he says. “And a night at the inn.”

The alderman’s mouth twists, but he nods firmly. “Watch yourself in there. It’s narrow passages and long falls into the dark.”

The path up the mountain is overgrown, and several of the footbridges across gullies and streams have collapsed back into the mountainside. “From mud it comes, to mud it returns,” mutters Geralt. It’s a good thing he didn’t try to bring Roach up here.

The entrance to the mine is marked with little three-clawed footprints, all overlapping in the wet earth. Nekkers, for sure. Geralt draws his silver sword and runs the rag he keeps in his ogroid oil over the blade, before tucking the rag back into the little jar and the jar back into his bag. He downs a half dose of Cat and heads into the mine.

The tracks lead to a tunnel that opens, after a few minutes of walking, into a cavern set deep in the belly of the mountain, where the air is cold and foul and close. The mine is dark even with the aid of Cat, but he can make out a single main pathway, open on one side to a pit that seems to go on forever. The path winds downwards, not in a neat spiral around the edge of the pit but in a sloping zig-zag cut directly into the rock, wide in some parts and precariously spindly in others.

It does not, now that he thinks about it, look like any mine he’s ever been in.

But there _are_ several pickaxes and wheelbarrows left on wider ledges, boxes of hammers and pins and picks strewn throughout. And the wall is rough, pitted and pockmarked by the work of many hands.

 _More likely the lad fell to his death,_ thinks Geralt. But that wouldn’t explain the fog or the shrieking.

He keeps his gaze on his feet and walks slowly, purposefully, listening hard. Ahead, there’s the chirps and trills of a small family of nekkers. Strangely small, actually. _They must have just moved in,_ thinks Geralt. 

Beyond that, something bigger: snuffling in the dark, dragging its claws against the rock. A ghoul, as the alderman said. And if there’s one ghoul, there'll be more in the path below it. 

No sign of the third monster, yet.

He dispatches the nekkers with a well-aimed _aard_ , flinging their entire horde down into the abyss. They hit the bottom after a long, long silence.

Ghouls next. He wipes the ogroid oil off his silver blade ( _What a waste,_ he thinks) and rubs necrophage oil on. Better to have it and not need it, as Vesemir always says. Said. 

Geralt shakes his head once, sharply, trying to get the thought out.

Two doses of Cat later, and Geralt still hasn’t found the ghouls. He can hear them clawing the rock just ahead, just past the next bend in the path. And whenever he reaches that bend, they seem to be one bend farther. For a moment Geralt imagines walking deeper into the mine forever, staring at his feet in the smooth dust, chasing ghouls and never finding them.

Geralt frowns. _Smooth_. If he’s following ghouls, he should be seeing their tracks. He takes a moment to curse his inattention, and then starts to think.

If there’s no ghouls, then something else is making that sound. Luring him deeper. 

_A trap._ He should have realized once he’d killed the nekkers—there’s no other sign of anything down here, be it miners or necrophage. He must be far past where the miners usually go, come to think of it.

“Fuck,” says Geralt, very quietly. 

Unfortunately, trap or no, he has to keep going.

The pathway becomes rougher underfoot the farther he walks—less traffic, and thus fewer feet to smooth it, he supposes. There are a few small glints of something shining out of the walls, which he ignores in favor of pressing on. He stops only once, to replenish his bottle of Cat with a little alcohest and some vigorous shaking. 

Eventually, after a very long time, the slope of the pathway evens out and solid, wide ground appears below him as a massive cavern divided by a subterranean river either long dried up or else so deep as to render the sound of it imperceptible. The nekkers should be down here. If the lad fell off the pathway, then he’d end up somewhere near the nekkers, provided one or both of them didn’t drift as they fell and end up in the ravine. 

Geralt closes his eyes and takes in a deep lungful of the putrid air. It smells chiefly of damp and dirt and decay, but under that is fresh icor, and something else. Metallic, maybe, like someone dropped a box of chisels and hammers down here. He opens his eyes again and follows the scent along the wall of the pit. He comes to the nekkers—less of a pile of them and more of a smear, their bodies crushed into each other in a grotesque display of gristle and bone splinters and teeth. He picks up a few claws as his trophy and torches the remains with a quick _igni_. Lucjan shouldn’t be far.

There’s a strange shape just ahead. Geralt squints and quickens his pace. Out of the gloom, a large bell-shaped cage emerges. Coiled loosely around it is a long, thick chain. A massive birdcage, large enough for a human to fit inside. The pit seems much colder, all of a sudden.

Geralt moves closer to peer between the bars.

Lucjan, undeniably.

His skin has rotted away and his skeleton is as splintered as the nekkers, but the partial hip bone paints a very human picture.

Geralt takes a few deep breaths that come out visible, and tries to center himself. Lucjan was caged and then dropped down the side of the pit. But to what end? If it were ritualistic, there would be a lot more bones and cages, and the alderman wouldn’t have asked him to investigate it besides. Obviously, he didn’t fall or get brutalized by the non-existent ghouls. No, what would make more sense was if someone had held a grudge.

But why the cage, then? 

And for that matter, why all the lies from the alderman? 

Geralt circles the cage, thinking, until his eyes land on something on the wall a few paces away. Markings gouged into the stone—a large circle with a symbol in it, and several more symbols below.

“Fuck,” mutters Geralt, already reaching into his bag for specter oil, but his hand lands on Vesemir's medallion, instead. He flinches away and keeps rummaging. Should have realized it hours ago. The fog, the stories that didn’t add up, the mystery death. It was as obvious as could be.

He’s rubbing the oil on when he hears it—soft, almost like wind chimes. Geralt whirls around, putting his silver sword between him and the Penitent, oil rag forgotten on the ground.

He’s about to cast an _yrden_ when the Penitent begins to speak.

_A killer, come to my grave? My, you are bold. And not just any killer, but one with a guilty conscience, as well._

The words seem to be placed directly in Geralt’s head. Inaudible, yet unspeakably loud.

“I kill monsters,” says Geralt, “And even then, only when I have to.”

The Penitent laughs at that, long and shrill. _You’d call your own daughter a monster? How cold._

Geralt’s stomach clenches. “What—”

_Your daughter, your father, your brother. All dead by your hand. I can feel it in your mind._

Bile at the back of his throat. “Lambert and Vesemir died in the siege.” He swallows hard, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. “Ciri sacrificed herself. I didn’t—”

_And yet you have such conviction in your wrongdoing, such guilt in your heart._

Geralt’s pulse thunders in his ears. He wants to vomit, or maybe crawl out of his skin entirely.

Instead, he edges toward the cage, trying to get close enough for _igni_ to reach it.

_Even if you didn’t strike the killing blow yourself, you placed them in danger, and then stood back and watched them die._

“I didn’t,” says Geralt. 

_Why do you think you have so many dead friends, White Wolf? You do this to everyone you purport to care about. You trap them like spiders in a web, and wait for them to thrash themselves to death._

“No,” says Geralt. He’s almost within range.

_You are heartless. If the spirits of your victims remain, let them haunt you. Let them reap their justice._

Geralt grits his teeth and lunges at the cage, fingers forming _igni_. The bones begin to burn quickly, and the Penitent shrieks, enraged.

An _yrden_ on the ground exhausts him, but it’s necessary—the Penitent flits toward him, incorporeal until it hits the barrier of the sign and then Geralt attacks, catching the wraith through its stomach with his blade. It retreats and then advances again, bearing down hard and fast with its scythe. He ducks, rolls, and comes up behind it, this time striking it through the neck. It howls again and flings him against the wall of the pit.

Geralt’s vision is still white when he rolls once more, just avoiding the hiss of the scythe where his neck had been. He casts _quen_ and curls in on himself. 

A blow to his back—but this time the _quen_ shield takes the impact and flings it back at the Penitent. There’s a shrill burst of noise, and then silence. Geralt lets himself pant for a moment, until he’s mostly caught his breath and his vision is only blurred and not white.

There’s the expected spatter of glowing ash no more than an arm span behind him, and the embers of the bones just ahead.

It takes almost more than he has left to make his way back up the pit. 

It’s nearly daybreak when he emerges, still Cat-eyed and black-veined. He takes the winding road back down the mountain, follows the path to alderman’s house, and bangs on the door. He watches his toxic-pale fists and wonders what he’s going to do to the alderman.

The door opens, and Geralt pushes his way inside. 

“You lied,” he spits, voice as rough as stone.

“What?” the alderman squeaks out.

“There were no ghouls. Which you knew. Lucjan was caged and tossed into the pit. Which, I think, you also knew.”

The alderman blanches. “I didn’t—”

“If you tell me another lie,” says Geralt, feeling a slow, cold grin slide onto his face, “I will make sure that you regret it.”

“It wasn’t me!” The alderman bursts out. “It was his Pa!”

“You _knew?"_

“There was no stopping the man!” cries the alderman. “He were always beating on Lucjan! And then one night we see him marching through town dragging his boy along, up toward the mountain, and—none of us could have done anything! You have to understand!”

The anger leaves Geralt like water from a cracked cup, slowly seeping away until all that’s left is exhaustion, and revulsion, and grief. “What I understand,” he says, “Is that you watched a man murder his son. And you stood by and did nothing. And then you tried to get me to clean up your mess.”

The alderman is crying now.

“Where’s the father?” says Geralt.

“Dead, he’s dead,” sobs the alderman. “Got conscripted, never came back!”

Geralt presses his hands to his eyes and swallows down some nameless emotion that pushes up his throat. There's never any justice in No Man's Land.

He’s so very, very tired.

_The walls are shuddering with the wind, and snow seeps in through the crack under the door. Outside, the constant howl of winter gnawing the dead city down to the bone._

_“I never wanted to be a Witcher,” Lambert is saying. There’s a rent in his cuirass that shows meat, deep beneath the leather._

_“I know,” says Geralt, watching Lambert’s exposed rib shift with his breathing._

_Lambert ignores him. “I hated everything about Kaer Morhen. Everything besides Ciri.” Lambert’s gaze moves restlessly over the far wall. Agitated. “She brought life into that place when she was a pup. I guess it helped that she was the first kid there without the threat of the Trials looming over her. I remember watching her race Eskel up and down the stairs. Thinking to myself, I’d die to keep her safe. Never felt that before.”_

_Geralt flinches. Lambert’s eyes flick over to him for a moment, and then go back to the wall._

_“Well,” says Lambert, “In the end, I did. Got cut down for her. You know what my last thought was, Geralt? Lying in the courtyard of the Keep, bleeding out?”_

_Geralt wets his lips. “No,” he whispers._

_“My last thought was that at least it was me, and not you. You’d still be alive to keep her safe. You’d do a better job saving her than you did saving me.” Lambert barks out an ugly laugh. “What a fucking joke.”_

_Geralt doesn’t have anything to say to that. He swallows and looks down into the fire between them. It’s red and cracking, but there’s no warmth._

_“She’s here, you know,” says Lambert after a while. “Ciri. She’s waiting for you.”_

_Geralt’s head snaps up. “Where?”_

_Lambert nods toward the staircase, and Geralt is halfway up it before the dread settles in. He takes the last few steps slowly. There’s a long corridor and a single room at the end of it. White walls, white door. Blue copper latch that sticks to his skin as he opens it._

_It’s dark in there, but he can make out a shape in the dead center of the room. A figure. Curled in on itself, but one hand outstretched. He moves closer, not understanding, trying to make out the details. Pale, waxy skin. Nose almost black with frostbite. Ashen hair._

_Her eyes are open, but she’s not moving. Pupils clouded over. Geralt reaches out to nudge her shoulder, but she’s too stiff. Like she’s been carved out of marble._

_“You did this to her,” says Lambert._

_“No,” says Geralt. “I told her—I told her to stay here. I begged her not to go into that portal.”_

_“You drove her into it,” says Lambert. “You made her think she had no other choice.”_

_Geralt shakes his head. Something cold is closing over his chest and throat. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispers, “I didn’t want this to happen.”_

_“Ciri is dead because of you,” Lambert insists. “You were supposed to keep her safe. Like you were supposed to keep me safe.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Geralt chokes out._

_Lambert's voice is rising, now. “You never cared about her. She was a burden to you, another unwanted responsibility.”_

_Geralt shakes his head again. The coldness grips at him tighter._

_“And she knew it, too! She resented you like you resented her. Another father figure she neither chose nor needed.”_

_“That’s not true,” Geralt says. His voice is turning hoarse. His mouth is so cold. “She was my daughter. I loved her.”_

_“No you didn’t.” Lambert steps close. “And she didn’t love you, either.” He places his hand on Geralt’s ribs and pushes with his fingernails._

_“Stop it,” Geralt croaks out. He tries to shove Lambert off but he can’t move. He’s so cold._

_Lambert’s nails tear through his shirt easily and then start burrowing, clawing into the skin. Geralt can’t look away._

_“You deserve this,” Lambert says. Geralt can feel Lambert’s fingertips scrabbling around in his torso. “You’ll die twice. One for the way you killed Ciri, and one for the way you killed me.”_

The rough ceiling above him. A too-small bed. Geralt takes a deep breath and tries to unclench his jaw.

There was no-one to bury Ciri.

He wonders if she’s become a wraith, haunting a cold, dead, empty world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Penitents aren't supposed to talk or anything--I had to fudge a little to make everything work. 
> 
> Comments are super appreciated!
> 
> Also: quite a lot of this story is already written (I got snowed in for like a week and went kind of crazy and drank pretty much my entire stock of alcohol and also wrote this fic, idk) but it still needs to be edited and the ending isn't totally done. But I do have a solid idea of where it's all going, so the tags should be accurate all the way through (though I may add a few more).


	2. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: internalized ableism, nightmares, vomit, not-so-latent suicidality.

**ESKEL—7 SEPTEMBER 1272**

“Anything,” says the cooper, and then he coughs, hard. “I’ll give you anything you want if you kill those robbing bastards.”

Eskel wipes some of the man’s spittle off his face with a grimace. “My going rate—”

“Anything,” the cooper interrupts, “Besides coin.”

Eskel’s heard _that_ before. “The Law of Surprise, then,” he says. “That which you have already but do not know. So long as it’s not a child, I’ll collect it when I return.”

The cooper nods agreeably. “They came from the west,” he says, “Out of the Kestrels. I’d wager they’ve got a hide-out in the foothills. Kill them all, and bring everything they stole.”

“I thought you said they only took your coin.”

The cooper squints at him. “I haven’t had time to take account of every little nook and cranny in my home, Witcher. Might be they took some of my lady wife’s fancy baubles, too, or some spices from the kitchen. Just bring back everything they have!”

Eskel levels a very flat look at him. “I’m not gonna make my horse carry back their cooking irons and firewood hatchets. I’ll bring whatever looks newly-acquired, and that’ll just have to be enough.”

The cooper slams the door in Eskel’s face.

Personally, he’s holding out hope for a windfall crop. Apples would be nice.

But anything that he can either eat or sell would be good—he’s running low on almost everything, especially food, and contracts are far and few inbetween these days. 

Maybe if he wore a mask, or a deep hood...

But that would only serve to foster additional distrust, and would doubtless lead to some pugnacious drunk pulling it away to see his face. The reaction would be worse, then—not only a mutant and a freak, but a liar as well. 

No. He’ll take every contract he can get, and he’ll do some hunting when time is ample and work is scarce, and he’ll find some cave to clear out and then bed down in for winter.

 _Gods. Winter._ He’s never spent a winter away from Kaer Morhen before. Some of the other Wolves had—Geralt tended to get himself into serious trouble right as first snows were falling, and many others just preferred brothels or lover’s estates to pass the time, but Eskel has always craved familiarity. Kinship. Not just a warm body, but a warm heart, too, and walls that have already given up their secrets. And so he’d been among the first to arrive back at Kaer Morhen, year after year.

The bandits left a clear, thick track through the mud—an unbroken line of bootprints and a wheelbarrow trench that runs from the cooper’s back door all the way to their shitty little camp. Eskel makes good time through the forest, stopping only to pick a few handfuls of verbena when he passes some growing through gouges in a steep cliff. He’s been going through his potions at a record rate—his usual sleeplessness doesn’t play well with scarce food, and without a sip of some kind of restorative draught every few hours, he finds that his limbs begin to buzz and his attention starts to float away. And even with the aid of a potion, he feels slow, strung out.

But relief won’t be coming—the chances of happening across a friendly face are low, no matter where he travels. 

Eskel dismounts Scorpion and pickets him to a sturdy tree a few hundred meters away from the camp and then creeps through the trees until he’s only just out of sight. Predictably, the bandits are arguing.

“ _I’m_ the one who found his hut in all the rain and fog, so _I_ should get Jakub’s share,” says the first one.

“Well, _I’m_ the one who got the lead to begin with, so _I_ should get Jakub’s share!” says the second.

“And _I’m_ the one who kept you numbskulls alive!” says the third, and he thumps his chest soundly. “You lot would be in the wolf’s belly alongside Jakub if it weren’t for me!”

They break out into shouting. Eskel takes a moment to rub his eyes clear and then moves closer, fingers forming the sign of _axii_. A blissful silence falls over the camp.

“ _I_ am the one who put an end to your bickering,” says Eskel, “So I should get all of your shares, and Jakub’s too.”

“How’d you put an end to it?” says the first one, dreamily.

“Like this,” says Eskel, drawing his steel blade.

From the looks of their loot, the bandits hadn’t gone on very many raids so far, and they were about as well-off with food as Eskel is. The cooper’s coin lies in an open chest next to a few bolts of bloodied silk and a badly-salted ham shot through with mold. Eskel inspects it for a moment, hoping that some part of it may still be edible, but it reeks of rot and slime all the way through. He kicks the ham away and latches the chest, carries it one-handed back to Scorpion. He straps it atop his other bags, unties Scorpion’s picket, and sets off.

The cooper is finishing staves when Eskel approaches. “Ah!” he says, jumping up. “You’ve returned alive, Witcher!”

Eskel shrugs and dismounts, tying Scorpion to the hitching post and pulling the chest off behind him. “This is for you,” he says, handing it to the cooper.

The cooper unlatches it eagerly, and then visibly deflates. “Is this it?”

“You said they took your coin,” says Eskel, smelling trouble. “That’s all the coin they had. And you get three bolts of silk as a bonus. I fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

“Are there _maggots_ in here?”

“Nevermind that,” says Eskel quickly. “My payment?”

The cooper coughs at him. “Unfortunately,” he says with a nasty smile, “I’ve not found any new boons nor had any payments or news. So there’s nothing you can take.”

“In that case,” says Eskel, “I’ll just wait.” He picks up one of the finished barrels in the corner and sets it next to the cooper’s front door. He sits down heavily. It’s not the safest play—if the cooper calls the guards then it’ll be Eskel’s word against his, and Eskel is never going to win that particular battle.

On the other hand, the cooper looks like a coward. Eskel will take his chances.

The cooper glares at him for a minute or two, but eventually he goes back to his staves.

It’s nearly night when the cooper slams down his adze and says “You can’t just sit there forever!”

Eskel stifles a yawn behind his hand. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Fate usually doesn’t make me wait very long.” But he’s growing as antsy as the cooper is. Eventually a patrol will come along, and Eskel isn’t as keen about his chances of getting paid if the guards intervene.

The cooper’s incensed muttering is interrupted by the hoofbeats of a single horse (light but burdened with many saddlebags, and lacking the telltale ring and clatter of a weapon in a scabbard) on the cobbled road. They both watch the rider pull up and then dismount, rummage around in a saddlebag for a moment, and then shove a letter at the cooper.

The cooper hands it back. “I’m not taking mail right now,” he says. “Come back later!”

Eskel raises his unscarred eyebrow. 

The courier glares at the cooper, unimpressed. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather deliver it _now_ , while I’m here.” She holds it out to the cooper again, who crosses his arms. “Fine,” says the courier, turning to Eskel. “ _You_ can have it.” 

Eskel smiles as beatifically as his scars allow. “Thanks,” he says, popping the wax seal off and scanning it. 

_...Jonatan Barleycorn gives half his property to himself, to be spent in Alms; the other half and chief among it his farm and its furniture and livestock to his cousin Olek. Leaves bequests to the priestesses of the shrine of Erasmus, to be distributed at earliest convenience..._

“Well, that’s a new one,” says Eskel, frowning down at the document. He looks up at the cooper. “I suppose you’re Olek?”

“Yes,” spits the cooper. “But what’s a mutated thief care about my name?”

“I’m a thief, now, for trying to get paid for my labor?” says Eskel. He turns to the courier, who has climbed atop her horse again. “This man promised me the Law of Sur—”

“I truly don’t care,” interrupts the courier, digging her heels in and leaving them in a cloud of straw and wood shavings.

“What’s in that letter?” hisses the cooper. He’s standing much closer than he was the last time Eskel spared him a glance.

“A will,” says Eskel. He watches the cooper turn red. 

There’s a campsite half a league down the Path. He gives Scorpion a picket and a rub down in the firelight. The will is still tucked into a saddlebag. _Fuck_ , thinks Eskel, _a fucking farm._

He spends a few moments thoroughly squashing any sense of hope or relief. The townspeople of whatever backwater shithole this farm is sure to be in won’t believe that he earned the deed fair and square. Or they will believe him, but it’ll be an uninhabitable ruin. Or—

**GERALT—15 SEPTEMBER 1272**

There’s a pair of water hags in the marshes, according to Ksenia the blacksmith. Geralt has never known hags to share territory, but perhaps he’d misheard—he hadn’t really been listening as much as he could have, if truth be told. And he hadn’t pressed for details, either, just agreed on a price that he can no longer remember and then set out toward the marshes.

A raindrop lands on the tip of his nose. He keeps walking.

He can’t remember what oil to use for a water hag, but he hasn’t been sleeping well. Does it matter, anyway? Either he finishes the contract, or he doesn’t. In the end it’s all the same.

_Wind roars through the arches of the tower. Geralt notices, inanely, that Ciri’s not dressed warmly enough. He wishes he were wearing his cloak over his armor so he could place it around her shoulders._

_“I’ve seen what’s to come,” Ciri says, slowly. She’s staring out at the ice. “I know destruction approaches. The worlds will freeze, one after another, and all life will be eradicated.” She turns to face him. “Only I can prevent this from happening.”_

_“There has to be another way. Maybe Avallac’h—”_

_“He’s only a visitor in the other worlds. A traveler. He has no ability to take my place.” Ciri’s got that resigned look on her face, the one she uses when she’s about to play her last card in the final round of gwent, and she knows it won’t win her the game._

_Geralt feels his own face shift as though someone else is controlling it. Fury rises in him, filling his lungs, his throat, his mouth. It presses against the backs of his teeth. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, is that it?”_

_“What?” says Ciri. “I don’t want to do this, Geralt, you have to know that. But—”_

_“If you want to destroy yourself on a fucking suicide mission, then do it!” He grabs her arm, grip far tighter than he should use on a human, but he doesn’t care. He hopes it hurts her._

_“Geralt, just let me explain—”_

_“I don’t give a shit about your excuses, Ciri.” He starts dragging her closer to the portal. “I spent months looking for you while you fucked around with Avallac’h, learning nothing and doing nothing. I almost died looking for you!”_

_“I wasn’t—”_

_“I’m done putting my ass on the line for you, Ciri! I’m fucking done with it!” They’re just in front of the portal, now. It pulls at the wispy ends of Geralt’s bandages._

_“Geralt, wait!” Ciri struggles, trying to kick away, but she’s not a match for him. He shoves until the portal’s magnetism has taken hold of her, until it swallows her up, and then she’s gone._

_Just… gone._

Geralt’s already vomiting when he jolts awake, choking on it. Cold sweat gathers between his shoulder blades. He manages to roll over onto his side so the rest of his stomach comes up beside his bedroll, until finally there’s nothing left.

When the dry heaving eventually stops, he sits upright, limbs weak and shaking. He can barely breathe through the shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long--transitional chapters are really hard lmao. I ended up rewriting it twice before kind of deciding to post it so I can keep going with the fic. 
> 
> My own personal take on the alchemy system in TW3 it that you definitely can’t just replenish a tincture with alcohol forever--you can do that maybe once or twice when you’ve used about ¼ of it (this’ll definitely diminish the effectiveness), but eventually you need to actually add substance to it or it’s just gonna be straight alcohol. So in a pinch, a Witcher will dump some alcohest or whatever into their bottle and give it a shake, but on the road they’ll have to continually gather ingredients to grind down into pastes to put back into their bottles. I know it’s not canon, but the system as they wrote it absolutely doesn’t work in real life, and that annoys me.
> 
> The potions Eskel uses are Tawny Owl (stamina regeneration, for which he’d need verbena and occasionally arachas venom) and Earth Elemental Decoction (resistance to vitality draining effects, for which he’d need balisse fruit and pringrape). Witchers don’t really have a catch all “I haven’t slept in weeks and I have nothing to eat and I need to not be dead on my feet right now” potion but I figure between the two of those, they cover most of the bases.
> 
> Also I promise I’m not just prevaricating for the fun of it, this will actually come up a lot in the fic.
> 
> The will is modeled after an old English one (I’m really not savvy enough to go looking for old Polish wills, honestly). And I know Eskel is probably pretty reticent to go about claiming the law of surprise after his whole child surprise debacle, but also…. what’s a Witcher to do for payment otherwise, you know?


	3. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is so late! I hope the fact that it's longer than usual will make up for it.
> 
> Also! I got my prompt for the Fisstech and Succubi Fic Exchange so I’m gonna be working on that as well until mid April. I’m NOT putting this fic aside, but I will be dividing my attention between the two of them. So just a heads up if I go silent on updating this one for a little bit, it’s because I’m working on another Eskel fic.
> 
> Lastly: you may note (if you read the second chapter when it was still the most recent update) that I changed St. Elmo to just “Erasmus”. Elmo is the shortened form of Erasmus, and also, despite what the Witcher Wiki might say, there aren’t really saints in the Witcher Universe. So I’ve turned the real life St. Erasmus, Patron Saint of sailors and the sea, into the local god Erasmus. It fits a lot better. I just wanted to address that right off the bat so that it doesn’t cause any confusion.  
> Content Warnings for this chapter: vomit, panic attacks, ableism.

**ESKEL—3 OCTOBER 1272**

At the end of a very long road west is a small sign pointing toward a little footpath that burrows into a hill on the coast. _Kulyarch_. There’s faint divots on either side that speak to the occasional cart coming into town, but by the looks of it, nothing recent.

Trees creak and groan in the coastal wind. The air has smelled like salt for several leagues, but now a few faint traces of wood smoke and stewing fish emerge. The sun is high and cold and distant.

The town is another twenty minutes down the path and up the hill, though perhaps any other horse and rider would make better time. Eskel feels twitchy and restless, and Scorpion’s gait is slow. Exhausted. 

They both are.

He sees thin plumes of smoke first, rising above the treeline as they plod down the hill. Then the faint clammer of village sounds just like any other.

It’s a few painted huts, a communal gristmill, a small bloomery, and chickens milling through the street that winds between the huts and down, away toward the coast. Every hut or two has a small figure carved from bone set into the walls—a fish, a whale, an octopus. Trinkets in honor of the local gods, most likely. There doesn’t look to be an inn, which rules out Eskel’s usual place to gather information. There is, however, a well. And several young people chatting and drawing water from it.

Eskel climbs off Scorpion and leads him over.

“Excuse me,” he says, “Looking for the Shrine of Erasmus.”

The villagers turn to stare at him. A young woman at the back of their group points toward the coast and clears her throat, eyes darting between his face and his swords. “It’s cut into the cliffside,” she says. 

“Thanks,” says Eskel. He gives them a wide berth as he leads Scorpion past. _Please let the farm not be in the village._

The path ends on the beach, and Eskel pauses for a moment, not wanting to make Scorpion wander around on the sand. He shuts his eyes and listens. There—a ways to the south, Eskel can hear faint conversation and smell some kind of salt-based incense. 

There’s a small crowd in the shrine, all gathered together under the ceiling of stone. In the center is a priestess in blue robes standing in front of a large stone basin. Eskel hangs back to wait until the villagefolk have left. It’s probably best not to have an audience for this.

“The gods do not favor us this year,” the priestess is saying, “For I have observed many omens in the salt, and I have seen that a great storm will devour our town, and it will lay waste to crops and livestock.”

A collective sound of displeasure comes from the crowd. One of the villagers speaks up.

“Is there nothing we can do to appease Erasmus?”

“No,” says the priestess. “He wants blood this winter. He will have it. Kulyarch can do naught but prepare and pray, and make burnt offerings at His shrine when we are able.”

A while later, after all the villagefolk have dispersed back into the foamy sand, Eskel ties Scorpion’s reins to a large piece of driftwood and approaches the shrine.

The priestess watches him warily. “What can I do for a Witcher?”

“Not here as a Witcher,” says Eskel, and he holds out the will. “By the Law of Surprise, I’m here to claim my reward.”

The priestess doesn’t even look at the parchment—instead, she stares at him intently for a few moments.

“I have foreseen this, as well,” she says. “Lines in the salt. Blood in the shells. And bottle-glass, arranged just so in the sea-scum.” She turns away, toward the wide limestone basin full of ash and driftwood. She casts something into the flames there.

Bone fragments. From a whale, if Eskel had to guess.

The fire flares up for a moment, and then dies back down.

“It’s as I thought,” says the priestess, turning back to him. “It will do no good to deny you your payment. Very well. The farm is yours—neither I nor the people of Kulyarch will impede your comings and goings.”

“Thank you,” says Eskel slowly. “Your god, Erasmus, must be powerful indeed to grant you such knowledge.”

The priestess studies him for a moment. “It is good that you do not mock him,” she says, “For he does not take kindly to insults. Erasmus is mighty, and He is just. He will dwell forever in the undertow, and long will he live.”

“He’s a benevolent god, then?” says Eskel. It’s prudent to learn of local gods. Everyone knows that.

The priestess laughs. “No,” she says, “But we do not ask Him to be. He is the salt that binds the water. He is the whales that call in the depths. He is the blood that feeds the sharks, and He is the sand upon which we walk, and the fish upon which we feast, and the storms upon which our bodies break. So no, He is not kind, and nor do we ask Him to be. We listen to Him, we hear His words and His omens. This is enough.” She casts a small piece of driftwood into the basin. "And now I’ve had enough questions from you, Witcher. Go to your farm and leave me in peace to listen to my god.”

Eskel bows a little awkwardly, and does as he is bid.

The farmhouse is small, but just past it are many acres of pasture along the cliffside, hemmed in with a stone wall as far as the eye can see. Inside the fence are nearly a dozen sheep, as well as a barn with large wooden windows and a sloped sod roof in desperate need of repair.

The farmhouse itself also has a sod roof, though this one is in better condition, and wattle-and-daub walls that were once painted a cheery butter yellow, though the sea-spray and the wind has scrubbed away most of the color on all but the lee-side of the house. A large garden plot, separated from the pasture by the ubiquitous stone wall, lies near the road, overgrown with weeds.

Eskel takes a few moments to watch the long grass in the fields undulate with the wind, and then he scrapes a hand down his face, hard, and dismounts. He pickets Scorpion to a birch tree by the road and circles toward the farmhouse, pack and saddlebags in hand.

There’s a large stack of firewood outside beneath the overhang of the roof, which is promising—if Barleycorn had been cutting and seasoning firewood, then he may have stored other necessities for winter as well. Eskel has to stoop and squeeze sideways through the door, but he’s used to that.

It’s dark and musty inside. Eskel sets his bags down next to the door and pulls the wooden cover off the sole window to let the light stream in. The walls inside are painted blue, and there’s a table and two stools in the corner, a stone firepit with a spit and a few pots in the center, and a bare shelf against the far wall. An archway—thankfully wider than the door—leads into a sleeping area that has a pallet with an old woven blanket on it, and a small whale oil lamp beside it that’s been burned empty. Eskel pulls off the heaviest pieces of his armor—cuirass, swords, greaves, and mail undershirt—and sets them in a corner. He grabs the blanket and goes back outside, intending to hang it up to air out in the sun, but there’s a conspicuous lack of a clothesline. There's a set of wooden poles sunk about ten paces apart, next to an outdoor firepit that must be for laundry, but there’s no cauldron or pot nearby, and the ones in the farmhouse are too small to be for anything other than cooking.

Perhaps they were stored in the barn? Though that speaks of someone storing them after Barleycorn’s death—there’s no reason to put away basic equipment like that before the first snow has even fallen.

The gate to the pasture has been wedged shut with a few cope stones, presumably to stop the sheep from escaping. Eskel throws the blanket over his shoulder, pulls the stones free and replaces them on the wall. The sheep are settled against the barn, using it as a windbreak, but they get up and move away as he approaches.

Hopefully it’s just that he’s unfamiliar. If Barleycorn ignored his sheep (or worse, mistreated them), it’s going to be difficult earning their trust enough for shearing or hoof-trimming, not to mention lambing.

 _That’s a problem for another day, though_ , thinks Eskel. _When I’m less tired. Or at least when I’ve found the damned clothesline._

The barn doors have been propped open with a piece of firewood for the sheep to come in and out as they please, and the straw bedding looks relatively fresh. It’s been nearly a month since Eskel got the will, which means Barleycorn likely died two months ago, give or take a few weeks. Someone has definitely been here taking care of the sheep, if nothing else. It’s intriguing—maybe they’re a friend of Barleycorn’s, or maybe just a dutiful neighbor—but it doesn’t help much at the moment.

Eskel is knee-deep in straw when he hears the gate open and shut. Not the sheep escaping, then. Eskel turns to face the barn door and waits, wishing he hadn’t left his swords at the farmhouse. He has a few knives, and signs besides, but the swords do a lot more to discourage aggression than anything else.

The sound of footsteps, only barely audible over the rustling of the grass. And then a woman appears in the doorway, holding a shovel aloft like a weapon.

“Get out of here,” she says, “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

Eskel is a little impressed by the woman’s ferocity—even armed guards speak to him with more caution. “You the one who cleaned up the farm?” he asks.

“Aye,” says the woman. “Though I didn’t do it so that the likes of you could rummage through it all the easier.”

“I’m not a bandit,” says Eskel. “I got Barleycorn’s will as payment from his cousin who inherited the farm. You can ask the priestess at the Shrine of Erasmus, if you don’t believe me.”

The woman squints at him, still holding the shovel high.

“Listen, lady,” says Eskel, “I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m just looking for the clothesline so I can hang this blanket up to air, and then I’m gonna see to the sheep and the garden.”

She scoffs and motions upward with the shovel. “Clothesline is in a box in the loft. So are the garden tools, and all the other shite Jonatan left lying about. But I wouldn’t bother with the sheep—face like yours will scare them right over the fence and down the cliff, into the sea.”

“Right,” says Eskel, feeling his polite smile wither away.

“I’ve heard basilisks don’t have eyes, why don’t you go try raising those?”

“Yeah,” says Eskel. “Maybe.”

The woman spits on the ground and stomps off.

_Same as every other village, then._

The barn’s loft is packed full—there are, among other things, parts to three looms of various sizes (though their weights seem to be missing), an assortment of cauldrons and buckets, shovels, hoes, shears, a cedar chest of unwashed wool with a set of combs and a few drop spindles, a fishing net, and a crate full of little clay bottles of unlabeled seeds. The clothesline, in the end, is wrapped around an old wool rug. 

The sheep stare at him warily as he emerges from the barn with the rug, clothesline, seeds, and shovel. 

“Not gonna hurt you,” he says.

Predictably, the sheep don’t say anything back.

**GERALT—3 OCTOBER 1272**

“There’s a witch just out of town,” says the innkeeper as he puts a bowl down in front of Geralt.

“I don’t kill witches,” says Geralt. “And I asked for ale, not food.” 

It smells enticing—some kind of parsnip soup fresh from the harvest. Geralt’s stomach turns. He clenches his teeth to stop himself from gagging.

The innkeeper gives him a hard look. “She could fix you up. Witcher like you could probably do a favor for a favor.”

“Don’t need fixing,” says Geralt. He pushes the bowl back toward the innkeeper and stands.

“Okay,” says the innkeeper. “Long as you’re hale enough to lift the curse on the well I don’t much care what you need or what you don’t need. But if you keel over before then, we’ll all suffer. So just so’s you know, she’s east down the road and a left at the big oak tree.”

It won’t be Yen—she’d have solved the problem with the well as soon as it came up, no matter how much she likes to pretend that she doesn’t have a heart. _And even if it is_ , Geralt thinks, _she won’t want to see me. She doesn’t need the reminder._

He goes anyway. Follows the hum in his medallion down the main road and onto the path tread into the long grass. He stops just outside the clearing. _What do I even say? Sorry I—sorry I let Ciri go into the portal? Sorry I didn’t follow her._

_Sorry I made her feel like she had no other choice. Sorry I was a bad father to her. Sorry I didn’t try harder, didn’t say more, didn’t train her better._

All true. But he knows Yennefer well enough to know she doesn’t want to hear it.

He’s already convinced himself to go back to town when the door opens, and a woman with short brown hair and an orange dress steps out. She watches him for a moment, eyes dragging down the swords on his back and the badly mended gash in his cuirass.

“What can I do for a white-haired Witcher?” she says in a soft, deep voice.

“Nothing,” says Geralt. He turns away, and then back again. “I thought you might be someone else. My mistake.”

“That’s a pity. Though perhaps I know your ‘someone else’?”

Geralt shakes his head and takes a step backward.

“Then perhaps I could solve your problem in her stead?”

“No,” says Geralt. “It had to be her. Sorry.”

Geralt sits down on the floor of his room at the inn. Armor off. Swords next to him. A small, solid dagger in each boot. He closes his eyes. He lets his thoughts drift through his head. Acknowledge them, and then let them pass. Simple.

 _Should have been faster taking those rotfiends out._ Deep breath. In, out.

 _Someone could have gotten hurt. Shouldn’t be so tired on the job._ In, out.

 _That girl was too close when I was fighting them. Another minute and one of them could have attacked her. Wouldn’t have been able to save her—_ Another deep breath. Let it pass.

 _I couldn’t save Ciri._ In, out.

 _Or maybe I could have._ Geralt’s breath catches in his throat.

 _Could have and didn’t._ He shakes his head sharply, trying to displace the thought.

 _My fault she’s dead._ His stomach clenches. In, out, but it’s far too fast.

 _No-one to put her to rest. No-one to mourn her. No Witcher funeral like Lambert or Vesemir._ Shaky breath in, hard breath out. Geralt is distantly aware that he’s rocking back and forth, that his fingernails are biting into his palms.

 _Froze to death. Alone. On that cold, empty planet. No-one to save her._ He’s gasping for air now. Chest tight. Blood on his hands.

 _If I’d gone with her, she might have survived. I lasted almost a day in that place. But she can’t do signs. Wasn’t dressed warm enough._ His own breath harsh and loud in the little room.

_Didn’t even give her my cloak before she went._

**ESKEL—4 OCTOBER 1272**

He can’t sleep. What a surprise. The mattress is far too short, and the straw inside is old and compacted, but that’s not the problem. The tides are loud and the crickets louder, but that’s not the problem, either.

Eskel rolls over and stares at the ceiling. The layer of birch between him and the sod roof is thin. Perhaps it’s supposed to be that way? Eskel doesn’t know anything about roofs that aren’t made of stone.

Kaer Morhen was built to last, but it’s rubble now. And this shithole farmhouse that’s made mostly of various forms of dirt is still standing. 

Similarly, Witchers are supposed to be more resilient, more adaptable. And meanwhile, Eskel hasn’t slept for more than half an hour at a time since—

“Fuck this,” mutters Eskel, and he crawls to his feet and then drags the blanket off the mattress bag and leaves it in a heap on the floor. He picks up the mattress and the wooden frame and hauls them through the stupid narrow doorway, throws them in the dust by the clothesline and hits them with _igni_ until the skin on his palms and fingertips is raw.

_That’s better._

Eskel spends the night in the pasture. It’s not like he was going to sleep, anyway.

The sheep watch him from a distance. A few of them lay in the center of the herd, slowly chewing cud.

Wind tears across the pasture, rustling the grass and howling against the farmhouse. 

In the morning, Eskel moves a little closer, walking slowly and carefully. One of the rams—the oldest one, most likely—stamps his hooves threateningly. Eskel sighs and moves away again.

It took a few weeks for Lil’ Bleater to really like him. Sheep and goats are pretty much the same, aren’t they?

The large garden plot near the farmhouse is filled with weeds and no crops—the weeds must have overcrowded and out-competed whatever had been planted earlier. It’s late in the season to be starting, but Barleycorn hadn’t had much of a winter stockpile—a few bags of dry beans that Eskel is fairly sure were meant for sowing, and a massive clay pot with about a hand's depth of unmilled rye. Certainly not enough to last Eskel through winter and early spring, even if he supplements with fish or the occasional rabbit.

Kaer Morhen had a large garden, of course—you can’t eat meat that isn’t there, and in the lean seasons most animals headed south to the grasslands and forests.

Which brings him back to the seeds. Eskel pulls out a few of the bottles and pours the contents of the first one into his palm.

They're... seeds. Small and black. He doesn't recognize them. He pours them back in the bottle and tries another. Pumpkin, maybe? But he's not sure.

The others are all similarly unfamiliar. Eskel pulls the stopper out of the last bottle. Little spiky pit in his hand—distinct enough that recognizes it. Beets. A good year-round crop, but especially winter hardy.

Pulling weeds is more exhausting than he remembers. Maybe it’s the sleeplessness, or maybe he’s just getting old.

The weeds get thrown into the pasture for the sheep to chew. Eskel grabs the shovel and starts turning the earth.

He plants two beet seeds every half hand-width, and then brushes soil over them.

By the time the whole plot is sown, Eskel’s back is aching, his head is swimming, and his limbs seem to belong to someone else. The sun is well past the midday mark. 

He doesn’t sleep that night, either.

**GERALT—13 OCTOBER 1272**

_The snow is up to the rooftops, now. The door was covered days ago. There’s no snowmelt here. No break in the storm._

_“Like Tedd Deireadh,” says Geralt quietly. “When I traveled through it, I took refuge in houses along the way. There were a lot of bodies. Lot of notes, journals.”_

_“What did they say?” asks Ciri. Her voice is muffled by the blanket over her head._

_“They didn’t know. They all thought it was a bad winter. Nothing more.”_

_“Do you think it’s worse?” says Ciri. “Knowing?”_

_Geralt stares into the ashes of the long-dead fire. His breath rises cold and white. “Better, worse. What does it matter?”_

_“It was your choice,” says Ciri. She burrows out of the blanket, and Geralt looks over. Her cheeks are painfully red. Her nose is purple, almost black, from the frost. “You could have stopped this.”_

_“If I let you go, you would have died.”_

_“I’ll die anyway.” Ciri sniffles and rests her chin on her knees. “You were too late, either way. Too slow. If you’d found me sooner, or if you’d made better choices… But that’s too much to expect from you, isn’t it?”_

_Geralt says nothing._

_“Wherever you go, whatever you do, death follows. Like the Wild Hunt after me. But there’s nothing chasing you, Geralt. You sow chaos and destruction because you’re too weak to resist it. Too foolish. Too heartless.”_

_“I know,” says Geralt._

_Ciri sighs and burrows beneath the blanket again. “Did you ever wonder how you escaped from the Red Riders?”_

_“Avellac’h told me you interfered. You returned me to Kaer Morhen. That’s how Eridin caught your scent.”_

_“That’s right,” says Ciri. “That’s how I died. Saving you. No matter how it works out, no matter how long it takes, I die because of you. Because of the choices you made.”_

_The wind howls and gnashes its teeth against the windows. The snow keeps coming down._

**ESKEL—13 OCTOBER 1272**

The beets are growing well—little pale green leaves, pink veins down the center. He waters them every other day and weeds the plot in the mornings. In the afternoons, he often goes down to the beach and wades to the rocky outcroppings with the old fishing net. Most nights he comes away with a few bottom feeders and some mussels scraped off the rocks.

He’s not hungry very often. He has a purpose during the day and a pasture to meditate in at night. He’s probably as well off as he’s ever been in his life.

But sometimes, when he's sitting in the long grass under the stars, he thinks about sharing the student beds with Geralt. About holding him. About them moving together, under the blankets, in the dark. 

**GERALT—18 OCTOBER 1272**

“Something’s killing the cows,” says the alderman. “Splitting them open.”

Geralt nods. He can deal with cow-killers.

A noonwraith. Geralt is almost certain.

He downs a few decoctions and sits quietly, until his gorge rises and suddenly he’s vomiting it all back up.

_Waste of a good potion._

Not that it matters.

Either the noonwraith kills him, or it doesn’t. This is familiar.

**GERALT—23 OCTOBER 1272**

A new town. A new monster. Katakan. He’s almost certain. Geralt takes three potions and immediately vomits them up again.

And again.

And again.

On the fifth contract, he stops taking potions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I think the Witcher lifestyle is more suited to a movement-based meditation. But I suppose since they sometimes use it as a sleep substitute, something that involves sitting down and closing your eyes is overall more restful than a nice repetitive movement. Also, you may have been thinking that Geralt’s meditation technique would leave a lot to be desired even if hadn’t sent him spiraling into a panic attack. Yes.


End file.
